


When the City Clears

by Batcii



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, enjolras has bad circulation and doesn't get grantaire's deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batcii/pseuds/Batcii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac smirked, </p>
<p>“You know I don’t think it counts as martyrdom if you die of hypothermia during a protest.”</p>
<p>In which Enjolras has terrible circulation and Grantaire is a a veritable human furnace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the City Clears

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written properly in about six months, and I haven't written fanfiction in about three or four years, but this was fun. 
> 
> Based partially on [this post](http://itsthefbiandfriends.tumblr.com/post/103383389174/akarians-which-person-in-your-otp-sticks-their) and partly on this note I made on my phone a few weeks ago: 
> 
> "enjolras who really doesn’t like the cold and has really terrible circulation but is REALLY IRRESPONSIBLE ABOUT IT. Combeferre is always just like "THERMALS""
> 
> It ended up not really like that at all and a lot longer than anticipated. Title is from Mumford & Sons' 'Winter Winds'.

Enjolras had terrible circulation. 

“And approximately zero sense of self preservation,” Combeferre said as he handed him a cup of coffee leaking thick steam into the blue morning air. Babbling gratitude, Enjolras untangled his hands from Courfeyrac’s collar — where he’d been warming them against his friend’s neck — to take the coffee with a relieved sigh. His fingers were stiff with cold and he flexed them around the warm polystyrene cautiously, hissing quietly through his teeth. 

“Thank god,” Courfeyrac said, winding his scarf tighter about his neck, “that cold was beginning to settle into my bones.”  

Combeferre shook his head admonishingly at Enjolras “you’ll lose fingers to frostbite one of these days.” 

They had been occupying the steps of the university council building since noon the day before, an overnight protest against the proposed privatisation of university fees. It was only mid autumn, but the mercury had dropped to just above zero in the night, and it had been colder than anticipated. Still, it wasn’t so cold that Enjolras’ purple-blue dappled hands were normal, given the temperature. 

“I don’t think you’re eating enough,” fussed Courfeyrac, “you need more padding out, no wonder you get so cold.” 

Enjolras frowned, “I eat plenty, I just have a quick metabolism,” he took a cautious sip of the coffee and grimaced, “how much sugar did you put in this?” 

“Warm, sweet drinks are good for preventing hypothermia,” Combeferre said firmly, “are you wearing cotton under that?” He nodded at Enjolras’ jacket.

Enjolras had the good grace to look at least a little sheepish, “yes?”

Combeferre sighed, “I told you never wear cotton as an under-layer, it does nothing to keep heat in. Wool or thermal Enjolras!” 

Enjolras’ frown deepened, “I know, I know, but I was in a rush and I hadn’t had a chance to do laundry…”

Courfeyrac smirked, “you know I don’t think it counts as martyrdom if you die of hypothermia during a protest.”

“Oh, is Enjolras hypothermic again?” Feuilly had wandered over, clutching a large thermos and a stack of polystyrene cups, apparently the magnanimous person who’d thought to bring a battery powered kettle and enough coffee to feed the small crowd gathered on the steps at 5am. 

“I’m not hypothermic! I have bad circulation,” Enjolras’ frown had grown so deep that what of his face wasn’t hidden in his scarf was now hidden by his brow. His usually commanding voice was muffled and it was rather hard to take him seriously.  

“Feuilly, tell them to start acting more like lieutenants and less like clucking mother hens.”

Feuilly laughed, “he does have a point, if Enjolras wants to risk frostbite we ought to let him, he has to fly the coop some day boys.”

Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around Combeferre’s middle and sighed deeply, chin hooked over his boyfriend’s shoulder; “look at us, empty nesters. Well, I’m ready to crack into the retirement fund when you are, dear. Barbados?” 

Combeferre laughed, twisting to plant a dry kiss on Courfeyrac’s curls, “anywhere with a minimum temperature of twenty degrees is fine with me.”

The morning ploughed on, blue turning to dazzling white as the sun rose bright but cold above the protestors, the chill of the night lingering. Enjolras was still freezing. 

The coffee had helped stave off the cold somewhat, but only temporarily; his hands were still an odd shade of purple, and although he wouldn’t admit it his toes felt thick and icy in his boots. 

Courfeyrac insisted Enjolras take his gloves, but as his hands were already icy, they didn’t make a lot of difference, and he kept taking them off to fiddle with his phone. Once or twice he tried again to sneak his hands into a friends’ collar, Bahorel tolerating it for a heroic fifteen minutes, but he felt badly about it, and began refusing help, since nothing helped in any permanent fashion.  

Instead he stuffed his hands into his armpits and tucked his chin into the collar of his jacket, chest pushed forward. Jehan remarked that he looked a bit like the pigeons gathered in the square, beaks buried in their plumage.  At around 7am Grantaire wandered up from the direction of student housing, armed with as many pastries as he could carry and a pen tucked behind one ear to take coffee orders. 

“Saint Grantaire!” Joly cried, gratefully taking the food. The rest of Les Amis gathered around him eagerly, _thank you_ s pouring thick.  

“Least I could do,” Grantaire shrugged, “since I didn’t join you all in your mad cap quest to die of exposure.” 

“Yes, by all means, mock us, Grantaire. Have I mentioned how endearing your utter indifference to everything is lately?” Enjolras snapped, before he could help himself. 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said in a warning tone, which translated roughly to _you’re cold and grumpy and being a brat._

Grantaire laughed, walking up the last steps to Enjolras, pastry bag held out ahead of him like a peace offering. Enjolras was reminded ridiculously of Courfeyrac trying to placate the cat that lived in their apartment complex with whatever he can find in the fridge. Last week he’d crouched in the stairwell with a piece of cheese in a half hour standoff with the stray.  

“I have an image to maintain Enjolras, my apathy is essential to my street cred, you know that,” Grantaire grinned. He shook the bag, “come on, before it gets cold.” 

Enjolras deflated, “thank you,” he said, reaching to take the food, hands still stiff with cold. His fingers brushed against Grantaire’s as he took the bag, and Grantaire’s eyebrows shot up, hiding under the curls that hung low on his forehead. 

“Shit, Enjolras, you’re freezing!”  

Combeferre frowned, “I thought you said you were feeling better.”

Enjolras grimaced, almost apologetic, “I’m fine, really —“

In one fluid motion, Grantaire reclaimed the bag, put it on the ground beside them, and swiftly gathered Enjolras’ hands in his. He paused, as if realising what he’d done, and he raised his eyebrows in question, “Okay?”

Enjolras, already enjoying the warmth of Grantaire’s grip on his wrists, nodded a little stiffly. 

Nodding in return, Grantaire pressed Enjolras’ palms between his, rolling his fingers gently and stretching them, as if trying their flex. His hands burned hot, supple and dexterous as he folded Enjolras’ hands about, massaging gently. He cupped them — his hands were broader but Enjolras’ were longer, so they were an odd fit between his calloused palms. Grantaire paused again;

“Sorry, this is a little gross, I promise I’m not sick”, then ducked to blow between his thumbs, warm, dense air circled in the nest he’d made of their fingers. He then began to rub again, turning and rolling Enjolras’ hands as if they were boneless, Enjolras himself put up no protest. 

It hurt a little, as feeling seeped back into his digits, but it was a delicious kind of ache, and he swallowed an embarrassing noise of relief by saying, 

“How are you so warm?” 

“I was a kiln in a past life,” Grantaire said absently, still intent on Enjolras’ hands.

“Human furnace Grantaire is a very real thing,” Jehan provided from where they was sitting nearby, “don’t ever share a bed with him, it’s like sleeping next to an open oven.”

Courfeyrac cleared his throat, “as someone who has spent an unfortunate number of nights sharing a camp bed with Enjolras and his fridge-feet, I can attest to the fact that it is equally as unpleasant at the opposite end of the spectrum.” 

Combeferre nodded, “he’s also unfortunately clingy in his sleep, if he’s not pilfering the blankets he’s leeching you of your warmth. Sleeping Enjolras has none of the socialist ideals of conscious Enjolras.”

Enjolras glared at Combeferre over Grantaire’s head. 

“The bedroom is an every man for himself zone, Combeferre.”

“I suddenly understand your disinterest in your endless parade of suitors, Enjolras,” Grantaire said with a smirk. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and pulled his hands from Grantaire’s.  Grantaire held his hands up in surrender, still smiling.

“No judgement here, you do you, Enjolras,” his grin grew a little wider, and he didn't need to state the literal intent in the phrase. 

Regaining himself, Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest, hands tucked again in his armpits, but already missing the warmth of Grantaire’s hands. 

“Thank you for the food, Grantaire. If you’re quite finished?” he said curtly; an obvious dismissal.

Grantaire laughed, and tapped the pen he pulled from behind his ear against his nose,

“Orders yet to take, O Leader. You’re a double espresso man, am I right?” he scribbled it on the back of his hand when Enjolras nodded, where a growing list of orders was making its way down his wrist. 

“Put sugar in it, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said, and Enjolras turned his glare upon him, _et tu, Brute?_

Courfeyrac laughed, and Combeferre looked at him fondly, gently scrubbing his hand through the curls behind his boyfriend’s ear. 

“You two are disgusting,” Bahorel scrunched his nose at them, having wandered over, “I’ll have the same, please, Grantaire. Sans the sugar.”

Another few people called out orders, and in the end the list tracked down onto Grantaire’s forearm.

“Got it,” Grantaire said, tucking the pen back behind his ear. 

He left with a quick wave and a “back in tic”, jogging down the steps and off down the street into the bright morning. The crowd that had gathered around him broke up, moving further down the steps to sit and wait.  Enjolras sat down on the top step, in spite of the freezing concrete, and huddled his knees to his chest. Combeferre walked up and came to sit beside him.

After a beat he said, “you know Grantaire couldn’t come because he had a double shift last night, right?”

He spoke quietly, but the others were all talking amongst themselves, turned away and not paying attention. 

Combeferre’s words rang a vague bell to Enjolras, and he felt guilt bloom in his chest remembering what he had said earlier. 

“Feuilly managed to find the time between shifts to be here,” he said, knowing it sounded lame.

“Grantaire was the one who covered Feuilly’s shift,” Combeferre said.  

Enjolras opened his mouth but closed it again when he realised he had no response. He was quiet for a long moment. 

“I should apologise,” he said finally, setting his mouth. Combeferre nodded, never condescending, just understanding. Enjolras frowned again,

“I know that I can be unfair to Grantaire. He’s just so _infuriating_ sometimes, and he knows how to get under my skin. I should ignore it, I know, but —”

“You bait one another, your bickering would almost be endearing if it weren’t so disruptive,” Combeferre laughed.

“I couldn’t stand him at first, these days though…” he paused, trying to find the right words, “I think I understand him, more than I used to. It’s just, frustrating; sometimes I see _so much_ from him, and other days…” 

“He wasn’t in the best place when you two first met — Joly let me know early on — I don’t know the details, but I think he’s had trouble in the past in trusting people with his friendship; trouble believing that they want him around,”Combeferre said. 

Enjolras nodded, “sometimes I feel like he’s testing me,” he paused, “all of us, really,” he amended. 

Combeferre laughed, “you’re a very intense person, Enjolras, and alarmingly sincere. It can be a little much for new people.” 

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, but Combeferre stopped him, tone placating, “don’t get me wrong, it’s one of your best qualities, just a lot to take on. I think Grantaire likes you a lot, I just don’t think he quite knows what to make of you, yet.” 

“I don’t know what to make of him, either,” Enjolras huffed.

Combeferre looked fond, “I know. Just, ease up a little. I know you don’t mean to, but you can be quite cruel when you’re defensive.”

Courfeyrac loped up to them, two steps at a time, “what are you two looking so serious about, then? Joly just found his pack of cards and I want to play bouillotte!” 

Enjolras declined to play, hands still stuffed in his armpits, but he watched from a step above, a semi-omniscient spectator with a healthy view of Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet’s cards. 

With as terrible luck as usual, Bossuet’s hand had seen him lose three rounds before Grantaire reappeared, two huge cardboard trays of coffee teetering in each hand. The game was abandoned temporarily while Grantaire called out orders like lottery numbers, making a performance of it. 

“And at long last, a double espresso with a side of cavities,” he grinned, walking up the steps to Enjolras, coffee in hand. Their hands brushed again as Enjolras took it, and Grantaire frowned. 

“You’re cold again, Enjolras,” he said, but he didn’t take his hands again, just let him take the cup. Enjolras couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or not.

“Thank you,” he said, instead. Grantaire nodded with a smile,

“You’re welcome. Your body really is shit at this circulation thing, isn’t it?” he said, and Enjolras wasn’t sure if he imagined the caution in his tone, or the relief in his smile when Enjolras laughed and said, 

“Yeah, it kind of is.”

Grantaire held up a hand, “that reminds me!” 

He dug in his pocket for something, tongue poking between his teeth in concentration. 

“Aha!” He proclaimed, and drew out a plastic package triumphantly. He tossed it into Enjolras’ lap. 

“Thought those might come in handy, since you insist on being out here for the rest of the day.”

Enjolras examined the packet, Grantaire had tossed him air-activated foot warmers, the kind you stick in your boots when skiing. He looked up at him, eyes wide 

“I — thank you, Grantaire,” he fished in his own pocket for his wallet, “how much were they? I’ll pay you back —” 

Grantaire waved his hand dismissively, “don’t you dare, Enjolras. Consider it my contribution to the cause; keeping our fearless leader from losing any toes.”

Enjolras knew when to just accept a gift, and he smiled, earnest; “thank you, Grantaire. Really.”

“No problem, least I could do,” he turned to walk away, but Enjolras grabbed his sleeve.

“Grantaire, wait!” 

He turned, looking with surprise at Enjolras’ hand.

Enjolras let it go quickly, “Sorry. About before. Combeferre said you were working last night. I was cold and short tempered and didn’t know,” he said. 

Grantaire laughed, “don’t worry about it, I didn’t think anything of it,” but he sounded grateful, and something in Enjolras’ chest inexplicably warmed. 

“I want us to be friends, Grantaire,” he said suddenly. Grantaire’s eyebrows shot up, Enjolras took a moment to notice how expressive his face was, how easily it slipped between emotions. 

He looked surprised, but quickly schooled his expression into something sardonic, “You wound me, Enjolras, are you saying that we’re not already friends?”

“We’re not,” Enjolras said, simply. He did not like to mince his words, and wasn’t going to let Grantaire derail this discussion, as he so often did.

“I…okay?” He said, obviously a little thrown.

“But I want to be,” Enjolras repeated, slower this time, sincere. Grantaire deflated a little. He wasn’t making eye contact, suddenly consumed by something in the middle distance to Enjolras’ left. 

“Yeah,” he got out, slowly dragging his eyes back to Enjolras, as if they were weighted, “yeah okay, I would too.” 

“Good,” Enjolras smiled, as if that settled the matter. Grantaire looked distinctly uncomfortable in the silence that followed. 

Enjolras had never really understood the prevalent social fear of “awkward” pauses. It was one of the first things he had noticed about Grantaire; he felt the need to fill silence like smoke in a glass jar. He was a veritable ocean of discussion, holding up both ends of a conversation if he had an unwilling partner, and coaxing it out of even the shyest of people. He could talk to anyone. 

In spite of only joining them some six months earlier, Grantaire had slipped into the lives of all of Les Amis almost seamlessly. Already close with Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet, he had quickly fallen in with Bahorel and Eponine’s poker nights, easily picked up shifts and common interests with Feuilly, laughed easily with Courfeyrac, and traded trivia and philosophy with Combeferre. Cosette had taken to him like a pet, knitting him hats and exclaiming happily over his sketchbooks, and Marius was fond of him in the way Marius was fond of anything Cosette loved; maybe he didn’t trust Grantaire completely, but he trusted his girlfriend’s judgement. Even Jehan, who was often shy around new people, had taken quickly to Grantaire, chatting happily about Dante as they cross checked their diaries for a good day to visit a natural curiosities store downtown. 

It was one of the things that frustrated Enjolras most; watching his friends so easily embrace someone who was such an odd fit for him. Once Enjolras figured out that Grantaire was not so much outwardly opposed to their efforts as looking for a reason not to be, he thought it would be easier. Instead, the Grantaire puzzle had only unfolded into more fractions, and he found himself frequently agitated around him; not so much because of Grantaire himself, but because of Enjolras’ own inability to understand him. 

A silent Grantaire was an odd sight, and so Enjolras decided to put him out of his misery, just as Grantaire made to excuse himself.

“Look, I better go — “

“What are you doing today?” Enjolras said, staying him with his voice.

Grantaire’s eyes skittered away, settling happily again in the middle distance. He scratched his hand through his mess of curls,

“Ah? Not a lot? Thought maybe I’d drag my ass to the fine arts faculty and see if any of the studios are empty,” he shrugged.

“Why don’t you stay?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire’s eyes flit back to meet his, if only in surprise. His face twisted in that familiar, sardonic way.

“I didn’t think I was welcome” he said, and Enjolras frowned. Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing, and he let his head fall forward in frustration. 

“Sorry, that was a dick thing to say,” he smiled ruefully, “that’s me, no dick filter.” 

Enjolras blinked, “well, as long as you’re being safe.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened, gaping at Enjolras, “did you — just?” 

Enjolras smiled serenely, “did I just what? I’m serious Grantaire; do you need to borrow a condom? You have had the safe sex talk, right? Because I’ll be honest Combeferre is a lot better at it than I am. 

Grantaire let out an ecstatic, bright laugh. He threw a hand over his face and giggled senselessly, taking short breaths, mouth a brilliant smile. He looked Enjolras, still grinning, and held out his hand,

“Thank you sir, well played.”

Enjolras took his hand, laughing as well, and shook it firmly. 

“What are you two laughing about?” Joly called from where the game of bouillotte had started up again. 

“Enjolras made a dick joke!” Grantaire called back. 

“Enjolras, my son! I’m so proud!” Courfeyrac laughed, “Combeferre, look at our child, taking on the world!” 

Enjolras flipped them the bird, and the laughter only increased. He turned back to Grantaire, who's shoulders had noticeably relaxed, his lips a perfect smile. Enjolras thought absently that he liked him this way. 

“If you don’t have any plans for the rest of the day, stay with us for the rest of the protest? People will be up and headed to classes soon, and we’ll break out the banners again.”

Grantaire grinned, “gosh, banners? Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse,” he laughed, “I’m kidding, Enjolras. Sure I’ll stay, got nothing better to do anyway.”

He sat down heavily next to Enjolras, and looked at him out of the corner of his eye, 

“By the way, your hands are like fucking icicles again, would you like me to —?”

“ _God._ Yes, please.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Idk if the threat of privatisation of universities is a thing in France but it is in Australia so just go with it okay. Write what you know or whatever. On that vein I should mention that I am the exact same kind of asshole as Enjolras in that I too have terrible circulation and I too am very irresponsible when it comes to looking after myself. 
> 
> Also according to my super quick google, bouillotte is a card game similar to poker that was popular during the 1789 French Revolution, and again briefly in the 1830s, so I thought it was fun to throw in there, even if no one actually plays it these days. I also don't know if battery powered kettles are a thing. They should be.
> 
> I have never written Les Mis fic before I am a fresh newborn foal in this fandom please be kind to me


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